MY THUMB HEALED NOT LONG after my theatrical debut, and so I returned to the basketball court, where my team was headed to the state finals.
My first game back after my injury, Coach Reggie played a 2-3 zone defense, where I was a wingman. I anticipated a pass from my opponent, found myself on a fast break being chased down by defense, and dribbled the ball to the hoop, jamming it down the net’s throat off one foot like Dr. J from the 1970s. But I landed wrong and my knee popped. Loud. I’d never experienced such pain in my life. I was holding my knee, but the referee ignored it until Coach Reggie called a time-out. A couple of my teammates came over and carried me off the court.
A hospital scan revealed the degree of my injury: a torn ACL. My team had won, and everyone, especially Coach Reggie, was in a jovial mood, but I was ambivalent. Because of the recovery time needed to heal my injury, I knew I was going to lose my scholarship.
Take three: After a few months to regroup, I tried out for and won a basketball scholarship to the University of Bridgeport in Connecticut to play in Division II. Although I hadn’t yet played Division I, this seemed like a demotion, but it was better than not playing at all.
My first day at Bridgeport, I attended a psychology class taught by a tall, passionate, youthful professor named Dr. Pedro. He captured everyone’s attention whenever he spoke, and opened my eyes to a new kind of calling: working with and helping others.
He explained that child psychology was the most important subject to learn since that’s where all our traumas begin, and that children develop differently from adults. Once you are able to understand your own childhood psychology, you can then learn how to explain, predict, and control your adult self.
I switched my major from computer information systems to human services. Immediately afterward, as he’d done with all his students, Dr. Pedro asked me about my early life. I told him about my time as a soldier.
DR. PEDRO: Do you ever have nightmares or violent thoughts?
ME: Of course I do.
DR. PEDRO: There’s something called post-traumatic stress disorder. Ever heard of it?
ME: No.
DR. PEDRO: It’s something you and I should look into and talk about. Sound good?
ME: Okay. Sure.
DR. PEDRO: I suggest you take a look at Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl, which, in a way, changed my life. I began to change my outlook on life and confront myself and my issues openly, in pursuit of peace from within.
Dr. Pedro became to me at the University of Bridgeport what Carla was to me at Lake Land College—a teacher, mentor, and confidant. He and I had long talks after lectures, and he helped me understand why, for so many years, I had experienced violent flashbacks and night terrors.
DR. PEDRO: Refugees, yourself included, often don’t find the help they need in dealing with their demons.
ME: If they can’t understand the past, how can they build a future in their new homelands?
DR. PEDRO: Exactly. And keeping your thoughts to yourself keeps you in a mental prison. It’s time we got you out.
On the court, Coach Mike had a laid-back approach to basketball, which I was not accustomed to. Training had always felt like military camp, where the coach was the general and we players his battalion. That was my comfort zone—it’s what I understood, where my upbringing came in handy. Playing at Bridgeport wasn’t as demanding as I wanted it to be, but I stayed on since I needed the scholarship. Meanwhile, I joined my cousin Kueth at Syracuse University during breaks, where a group of us worked on building an international basketball career.
There was a huge portrait in the gym of my famed countryman and former NBA star Manute Bol. Manute stood at an unimaginable seven feet seven, the tallest man I had ever seen. He cared deeply about Sudanese refugees and liked to hold gatherings of Sudanese athletes at his house in Connecticut. One day he had me, my cousin Kueth, the future NBA star Luol Deng and his brother Ajou Deng, a fine player called Deng Gai, and many others over, where we formed a team called the Lost Boys, after the term for the children of Sudan who were orphaned or whose lives were uprooted by war. (The Red Cross had come to our Ifo refugee camp and found a group of us living together in one tent, without mothers or fathers around. Each time they asked where our parents were, one of us would randomly, lightly state we were boys without mothers. So the aid workers branded us the “Lost Boys of Sudan” or “Red Soldiers,” meaning child soldiers.)
We played different teams and raised money for causes back in Sudan. And Manute played alongside us. His friends Mark and Shannon Murphy, Andrew Kearns, and Eddie Bono were always present, part of the charity efforts. One day Manute gathered us all together at the Murphys’. I was seated on the porch, close to the hoop, indulging in some hot dogs and barbecued chicken. I got a knot in my stomach, fearing this part of my basketball career was about to come to a screeching halt due to some random injury. In a way it was, but not for the reason I expected.
MANUTE: I have received a call from a woman named Jane Fonda and her adopted daughter, Mary Williams. They are in Atlanta looking for Lost Boys.
ME: The Lost Boys of Sudan? Us?
MANUTE: Yes, in fact. Those of us displaced by war and torn away from our families. They want real Lost Boys to audition for a part in a Hollywood film.
ME: Is this for real? What movie?
MANUTE: I Heart Huckabees.
Manute gave us instructions on how to shoot an audition video, encouraging each of us to give it a try. Our host, Mark, together with Andrew Kearns, who was an attorney, took charge of the auditions in Mark’s living room.
While waiting our turn, we played ball. After about thirty minutes, I went inside and stood in front of the camera. I felt that slight twinge of nerves that bubbles up in your belly and makes you want to either throw up or shake and warm your whole body, like before a basketball game. Luckily, my short stint hanging around the theater arts crew at Los Angeles Southwest College helped me channel those emotions into my performance.
We did the dinner table scene. Mark read the lines with me. When it was my turn to speak, my heart beat faster than when I tore down the court for a layup. I blurted out my line.
ME: “Because it is a family tradition in which I should continue.”
ANDREW: Cut!
It was exhilarating and heady, and then it was over. Unlike in the theater, there was no applause from the crowd. No curtain call. No flowers for the star on opening night. But that’s okay. This might have been a different animal, but I loved it just as much. Somehow, being someone else for even a moment made me feel as though I understood myself a little bit better. I took everything I’d been through, everything I’d learned, and focused it on creating something positive. It felt right.